


No Fear of Perfection

by galvelociraptor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Getting Back Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galvelociraptor/pseuds/galvelociraptor
Summary: It’s been 22 hours since Arthur screamed at him to get out.





	No Fear of Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> To see the gifset that inspired this story, go [here](https://galvelociraptor.tumblr.com/post/147335786637/um-wow-blushes-have-15k-of-arthureames).
> 
> Title comes from the quote, "Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it" by Salvador Dali.

It’s been 22 hours since Arthur screamed at him to get out.

Eames isn’t sure where he’s going, but he knows he needs to leave their apartment.

He stares out the train window, unseeing.

The old-timey feel of the trains soothe and aggravate him in equal measure. 

He drifts off into a fitful sleep, jerking awake when the train pulls into its final station for the night.

He checks into a featureless hotel, and finds the room as bland as every other hotel room he's ever been in: two beds, a table with a tv, a dresser, a bathroom. He catches sight of the ironing board in the closet and stifles a sob.

He pulls himself together enough to take a shower. He notices that his beard is getting a bit long and thinks he should probably trim it, because Arthur–

He breaks down and cries in the shower, water running hot and mixing with the tears on his face. 

In bed, he tosses and turns, trying to remember what had set Arthur off. He can’t remember.

*

In the morning, he notices that his phone has died. He empathises, but plugs it in. Shortly afterwards, the phone begins pinging madly. Eames stares at it. 67 messages and 9 missed calls? What the fuck had happened?

The messages start off relatively restrained: Where are you? and Where did you go? and slowly, the panic clearly rising in Arthur’s mind, the ‘fucks’ and ‘shits’ start creeping in: Shit, are you ok? and Fuck, please answer me. The voicemails are more of the same, Arthur’s pitch steadily creeping towards screechy, and Eames has to hold the phone away from his ear for the final two. He’s fairly certain his neighbors could hear that, too.

After having gone through all of the messages–including some not from Arthur, but with Arthur’s hand clearly visible (from Ariadne: Hey, how are things? and Yusuf: Did you hear about that new Somnacin formulation? and even Dom fuckin’ Cobb: Arthur is worried. Call him back, please. It’s the middle of the night and my kids need their sleep.).

Eames takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Texts Arthur: im fine. 

The response is swift. ARE YOU OK?

im fine, like i said.

Why didn’t you answer your phone?

it died.

Look, Eames–no, I need to do this in person. Where are you?

at a hotel.

Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll see you soon.

Eames knew he would, because he had no secrets from Arthur–not even his forged passports with their associated identities, credit histories, and even an unpaid speeding ticket here and there.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to see Arthur.

*

Less than 45 minutes later, a hesitant knock came at the door. Eames frowned. Arthur was never hesitant.

He checked the peephole; it was indeed Arthur.

Eames leaned his forehead against the door for a minute. Arthur knocked again, slightly less hesitantly.

“Eames?” Arthur called through the door. “Please let me in.”

Eames knew he would have to face this sooner or later. There were only so many Point Men and Forgers in the business. He considered. He had enough to get by–he could just…leave. Stop doing dreamshare. Go respectable. It would even be less dangerous. Well. Less dangerous to his heart, anyway.

Deep down, he knew that he could leave, and Arthur might even let him go, but Arthur would always know where he was.

That was Arthur’s superpower: he knew things, things like data and numbers and locations.

Eames sighed, and unlocked the door.

“Ohmigod, Eames.” Arthur bustled into the room. He was burdened like a packmule with various bags and cases. Eames’ heart sank.

“What happened?” Arthur asked. “Why did you leave?”

Eames looked down at the ground. His nose twitched.

“Did you bring me fish and chips?”

“You mentioned it was a favorite. I’m sorry, I’m not sure how hot it will still be,” Arthur replied, cautiously. He continued, “Do you know how you got here?”

“I know I’m not in Limbo, Arthur,” Eames bit off. “Or dreaming.”

“Do you?” 

Eames shot a questioning look at Arthur, who bit off, “You left your totem behind.”

Eames twitched violently, feeling as if a bolt of electricity had just shot down his spine. 

“Well, one of them,” Arthur amended.

“Do you mind if I–” Eames gestured at the bathroom.

“Go right ahead,” Arthur replied, solicitiously, if a bit stiffly. He fidgeted.

Eames went into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. He fished out the pocket watch that went with him everywhere, and checked the time (ahead 2 hours, as per usual) and the inscriptions. Although everything seemed accounted for, he decided it was time to check his backup totem as well. He thrust a hand out into the hall, trusting Arthur to know what he wanted. A lightweight box dropped into his hand. Startled, he nearly dropped it. He knew what was in that box, but it wasn’t his totem. He stepped back into the hotel room, peering at Arthur, who still wouldn’t look him in the eyes. Or stop fidgeting.

“Arthur?”

“I, um, found that. While cleaning.”

“What was going wrong with the job?”

“What, I’m not allowed to clean?”

“Darling, you and I both know that you only clean when something is going wrong with a job,” Eames snarked, the ‘darling’ slipping in out of habit. 

Arthur stopped fidgeting, and stared at him.

“The Chemist kept fiddling with the formulas. She didn’t like the side effects of that one, or the color of this one, or how viscous the other one was. I swear, I have never met another Chemist who is as finicky as she was,” Arthur prevaricated.

“So you cleaned, and found this, and then…?” Eames trailed off, meaningfully.

Arthur blushed. The color suffused all of his visible skin, which, given the oversized t-shirt (Eames’, he thought), was a lot. 

“I freaked out,” Arthur said, in a small voice. 

Eames didn’t think he’d ever heard Arthur be unsure of himself.

“So instead of coming to me, and asking me about this, you decided to yell at me?” Eames asked, angrily.

“I know it was a shitty thing to do, ok? I was beating myself up as soon as you turned around to leave.”

“Why didn’t you try to stop me?”

“I tried! Eames, I was screaming so loudly at you that the neighbors came over to see if everything was ok. Misty started barking at me through the window. The Robinsons’ toddler woke up crying. 

“I guess you just didn’t hear me.”

Eames’ anger had faded as quickly as it had come.

He knew a little of Arthur’s history–the foster system, the lack of decent parental figures, how much Mal’s death had fucked him up. He had never been clear about specifics, but now he wondered.

“Arthur, was I your first real relationship?” 

Arthur flinched. “Was?” he asked, something raw in his voice.

Eames considered. “I think, given that you were the one screaming, you get to be the one to decide.”

“I never want to do another job without you,” Arthur said, which was as good as a declaration of love from the reticent, sparing-with-praise Point Man.

“Arthur,” Eames said. “Pet. Precious. Darling,” he continued. “I know I have a bit of a reputation in dreamshare, but I’m not sure why you believe it.”

Arthur looked at him, confused.

“This is only my second real relationship. The first was in secondary school,” he confided. “I’m about as lost as you are, petal.”

“Is that why you left?”

“I think…I think I’ve been waiting for you to find a reason for me to leave this whole time.”

Arthur looked stricken.

“I didn’t say it was logical, darling.”

Arthur looked down at the carpet again, worrying it with the toe of his sneaker. “I love you, you know. I’m just…not sure I’m ready for that.” He indicated the small box with a jerk of his head.

“I’m not asking you to be. That’s why I hadn’t asked yet,” Eames said, reasonably. “The opportunity came up, a jeweler owed me a favor, so I decided it might be safe to hope. To dream.”

Arthur tucked his hands into his pockets. “I know screaming at you was a shitty thing to do,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“Ariadne help you with that?” Eames asked with a quirk of his lips.

“No, Dom.” At Eames’ puzzled look, Arthur explained: “He was constantly putting his foot in it. I sometimes wonder if she did it on purpose. She once let slip that the makeup sex was ‘a grand passion’.” Arthur made a face.

“I, um. I know I have some issues I need to work through. But maybe we could work through them together?”

Eames’ heart leapt. “I’m not exactly issue-free, darling. I think therapy might be just what we both need.”

“And maybe in a while, you could ask me the question?”

“Darling, I will wait with bated breath.”

*

(Inside the box were a pair of simple rings, solid metal on the outside. On the inside, curling script. One said: _You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger_ and on the other, simply: _Darling_.)


End file.
